


Protocol

by the_wretching



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wretching/pseuds/the_wretching
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Certain things are just expected...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protocol

Illya was battling a head cold. His immune system was waging a valiant effort but at this hour retreat felt the only option worth considering.

The woman occupied the bed while Illya wearily assumed a quasi-horizontal position in the uncomfortable overstuffed chair. Through the haze of ragged sinuses, he could still smell her perfume, their sex.

She’d exuded a tantalizing amorality leaning seductively against the hotel bar. Her eyes had promised discretion and danger, her smile a dare.

Napoleon would have been her type, not him, which ought to have aroused his suspicion rather than his libido. Perhaps the germs had muddied his judgment. Alone on this mission, he’d had to play the role of both partners. Perhaps that too had muddied his judgment.

Play the role he had. Unconsciously channeling Napoleon’s swarth, he had allowed himself to be lured. How did the man walk into these spiders’ webs with that air of unconvincing gullibility that let each player pretend they were the predator? And of more wonder, as Illya’s sudden cough brought his ribs into conflict with the arm of the chair, why?

Resolved, Illya walked to the bedroom and surveyed the situation anew. It was regrettably just as he’d left it.

“Miss… uh… Adrienne,” She looked groggily up at him, the coy veneer not yet sharpening her features, “I seem to be coming down with a flu. It would be best if you returned to your room.”

She smiled a smile that said she didn’t believe a word of it and reached her sleep warmed hand toward Illya’s nearest thigh. “Far be it from me to interfere with your convalescence,” she purred, the backs of her fingers caressing their way purposefully toward Illya’s groin.

“Thank you for understanding,” he said, stepping out of her reach, and wrapping the starchy blanket more tightly around himself.

She pouted obligatorily for a moment and then removed her alabaster form lingeringly from the bedclothes, obviously anticipating a change of heart from Illya, which would allow her to leave with the upper hand.

Napoleon would have granted her this grace. But Illya was not a natural diplomat. Illya just wanted to sleep.

And sleep he did, soundly, before the lock latched closed behind her.

 

* * *

 

Serena must have had more of a desk job than she let on. Thrush, it would seem, knew better than to place their best strategists in harm's way when they could help it. The hunger for field work fed ferociously into all her other appetites. Napoleon knew she wouldn’t be long as he had tied her wrists to the bedposts above her head.

He regarded the bite marks on his shoulders in the mirror with more resignation than afterglow. All teeth and claws, this one, he thought. Illya wouldn’t have gotten himself into this predicament. Illya didn’t fraternize with the enemy, even the honey-toned voluptuous sort. Motivated by principle rather than sport was Illya. And Serena… No, the only charming arrogant brunet Illya begrudged any patience for was Napoleon.

As he brushed his teeth to kill a few minutes, Napoleon wondered if there was a gentlemanly way to excuse himself back to his own room for the night. The rules of engagement prohibited leaving before dawn. And Napoleon, as a professional, was bound by the rules. To engage a Thrush outside the confines of the job required delicacy and, above all, manners. One operated strictly by the book or else betrayed the tenuous ceasefire.

Illya would have done what he damn well pleased, would have been plain and direct and, if the situation required it, threatening. Nothing would have stood between Illya and a good night’s sleep. So childish. So crude. So… efficient.

Napoleon turned off the bathroom light and returned to the bedroom. He stood by the bed for a moment, consoling himself with the view of Serena's perfectly shaped and uncovered hip, before slipping under the sheet to wait for the sun to rise through the curtains.


End file.
